


The Habits of Newlyweds

by nirejseki



Series: Habits [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Bad Puns, Bodyswap, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Light Bondage, M/M, Marriage, No Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About ten years before they go on the Waverider, Len and Mick get married and find out about one of the lesser-discussed perks of a married life.</p>
<p>(Prequel to The Habits of Married Couples)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Habits of Newlyweds

"So, did that work or fail miserably?" Mick asks, starting the car and driving off towards the safe house they'd picked to stay in tonight.

"I have no idea," Len says honestly. "The only reason I agreed to get hitched in the first place was to make Lisa stop making sad panda eyes at me -"

"Panda," Mick snorts, clearly amused by the thought. 

"- and she basically sobbed through the entire ceremony? But she kept saying she was happy, so I have no idea here."

"I'm telling Lisa you called her a sad panda."

"No you ain’t," Len says automatically. "We're married now. Spousal privilege, you can't say nothing I tell you in private."

"That isn't how it works and you know it," Mick says, derailed by Len's purposefully mangled legal jargon. "And even if it was, it's only against the government, isn't it?"

"Who are you more afraid of, Lisa or the United States government?" Len shoots back.

He smirks when Mick is forced to think about it for a few moments.

"Fine," Mick grunts. "Point taken. Spousal privilege."

Len tilts his head and watches Boston go by. "Hey, Mick, why'd you agree to marry me?" he asks idly. "I told you why I did it."

Mick shrugs; Len doesn't need to turn his head to know it. "You suggested it," he says. "And you're the boss."

" _Partners_ , Mick," Len scolds him lightly. "I'm only the boss on the job."

"And I'm the boss at home," Mick says with a throaty purr.

Len smirks and thinks of doing something with that, but since they're still a good ways from the safe house and he's a little worn out from the ruckus of the day, so he lets the moment pass. "I wouldn't dream of interfering with your mastery in the kitchen," he quips instead.

Mick snorts in amusement.

"But seriously," Len continues, frowning a little in thought, "why do people get married, do you know? If they're not criminals, they won't be thinking about the testifying bit."

"Taxes, maybe?" Mick suggests.

"I already do yours," Len points out. "And besides, all of our income's listed as windfall; we won't get that much benefit out of it."

“You get to make sure no one else gets your stuff when you die?” Mick offers.

Len rolls his eyes. “Mick, when I die, chance are you’re going to die right alongside me in the inevitable hail of bullets-slash-burned down building-slash-mid-car chase explosion.”

“I like that,” Mick says. “Lots of fire.”

“If we both die, Lisa gets my stuff and that’s what my will says anyhow.”

“Mine goes to a baby shark sanctuary.”

“…really?” Len asks, temporarily derailed.

“I saw an infomercial once,” Mick says, shrugging.

“Huh. Not bad.” Len contemplates that for a few minutes, then shrugs it off. “Well, if I do die first, you’re welcome to your half.”

“I’d never make it to the lawyer’s office with all the warrants piled up,” Mick says dismissively. “Leave it to Lisa. What other reasons people got?”

“Well, there’s the hospital visit stuff, but we don’t really go to the hospital much, and I don’t think most people do,” Len replies. “So why _do_ people get married, anyway?”

"Fucked if I know," Mick says. 

"Our dad married Lisa's mom," Len says, thinking about it. "I don't know if they got anything out of it; she didn't stick around all that long, so it seems like kind of a waste." He taps his fingers on the window, an old habit he does while thinking. "No idea if he did got hitched with my mom; too young to remember and never bothered to check the records department. What about yours?"

Mick's brow furrows. He doesn't remember his parents that well - the fire happened when he was eleven and he has persistent trauma-related memory loss - but Len’s asked, so he's thinking back as best he can. Casual questions like this were the best way to talk to him about his past; Mick always feels better about his mental health when he can think about that part of his life without walking himself into a bad reaction. “They were married,” he says slowly. “But I got no idea if it did anything for ‘em one way or another.”

Len nods, dropping the subject before he happened on one of Mick’s many past-related triggers. “I asked Lisa, since she’s the one who’s all gung-ho about it, but she just kept sighing at me and saying ‘you’re missing the point, Lenny’ over and over again.”

“So she has no clue either.”

“Sounds about right,” Len says, shaking his head. “But it was a decent ceremony, wasn’t it?”

“Sure,” Mick says. “I still don’t know why we couldn’t just stick up the courthouse and get the clerk to sign it.”

“‘A contract ain’t legal if it’s signed under duress, Lenny, you know that!’” Len mimics Lisa’s voice well enough to get a bark of laughter out of Mick. Len smirks and relaxes back into his seat. “I don’t know where she dug up that guy that married us, though; he was weird. Creepy vibes, you know?”

“I’m pretty sure he was the only guy she could find on short notice that wouldn’t turn us in,” Mick says dryly. “And she wanted us hitched before we could change our minds.”

“True, true. Whatever. At least we got to smash the glass; that was the only thing I remember from the one Jewish wedding I went to as a kid.”

“And the contract,” Mick says. “That was cool.”

“Yeah, signing the contract and all that. I read it over; it seemed pretty straightforward. At least, based on what I’ve seen in chick flicks: bind these two together, have and hold each other in sickness, health or wealth, walk in each other’s shoes, blah, blah, blah.”

Mick nods.

“Contract itself was pretty cute, though,” Len says thoughtfully. “All those curly-cues and fancy cursive. I kept it, actually. Might put it in a safe somewhere, or maybe on the wall.”

Mick snorts. “You do that, Lenny,” he says fondly. “Now if you don’t mind, it’s been a long ass day in the middle of fucking Boston, of all places. I wanna get to the goddamn safehouse and crash; it’s nearly two in the morning.”

“That sounds good,” Len says, already imagining the nice big bed they had back at the safe house. “You were right, we should’ve come yesterday instead of driving all night last night.”

“Eh, Lisa would’ve killed us if we didn’t get rings,” Mick replies. “And that jewelry store van only comes by on Tuesdays. We’ll catch up on sleep tonight. Why’d Lisa split, anyhow? The house’s got enough room for three.”

“She said she didn’t wanna impose on the honeymoon,” Len says, shaking his head.

“Well,” Mick says, “at least that gives us something to do tomorrow.” 

The next day, though, Len wakes up somewhere in the mid-afternoon to the sound of cursing – not unusual, but it doesn’t sound like Mick’s normal gruff-voiced bellowing. Higher, a bit more nasal. 

Len slits his eyes open. “Mick?” he mumbled into the pillow, his voice coming out strangely sleep-rough. 

“Got up to piss and fell off the goddamn bed on the way back,” the not-Mick voice says, and someone clambers back on the bed, rubbing his eyes with a scowl.

Len glances at him sleepily, then his eyes shoot open and he sits straight up in bed. “What the _fuck_?” he exclaims, staring at his doppelganger. 

“What?” the other guy yelps, looking around. “Where’s the trouble, boss?”

The words _sound_ like Mick but – 

The doppelganger looks at him. “Holy crap,” he says. “You’re me and I’m you, Lenny.”

“How’d you know?” Len says suspiciously.

“Even if I had a twin I don’t know about, there’s no way anyone could get my burns just the same way,” Mick – and it’s definitely Mick – says. “And you’re the only guy I know that looks like a pissed off porcupine when he’s feeling paranoid.”

Yeah. _Definitely_ Mick.

“Then what the fuck happened?” Len asks. “I didn’t even know switching like this was possible.”

“Outside of your stupid sci-fi shows, that is.”

“You leave off my stupid shows, Mick,” Len says threateningly. “But seriously, if it’s some sort of new tech or disease or something, that’d be one thing, but we didn’t even _do_ anything yesterday. Too busy driving and getting hitched with Lisa watching – ” He pauses as the obvious answer comes to him.

Mick scowls. It looks weird watching him do that in Len’s body; it was like looking at a really realistic mirror. “You don’t think it was getting _married_ that did it, do ya?”

“Well, it ain’t like we did anything else yesterday,” Len says reasonably. “And besides, ain’t married couples supposed to start acting like each other more after they get married?”

“Huh,” Mick says. “Good point.”

Len shakes his head and gets out of bed.

He tries, anyway; he ends up staggering around like a drunkard for a minute there until he straightens himself out. “Mick, your legs don’t work.” He thinks about it for a minute, then sighs. “No, they work. Your center of balance’s different than mine, though, ‘cause you’re bigger, and it’s throwing me off.”

Mick tries to get out of bed himself and scowls. “Damnit, Lenny, you run a mile yesterday when I wasn’t looking?”

“What do you mean?” Len asks.

“Everything _hurts_.”

“Hurts? Nothing hurts.” Actually, come to think of it – “Hey, nothing hurts!”

Mick was giving him a dirty look. 

Len coughs.

“You haven’t been doing your goddamn PT, have you?” Mick says accusingly. “You know what the doc said about your joints.”

“I’ve been doing the PT,” Len mutters, crossing his arms in front of him, then frowning down at them. The gesture felt weird. Less like he was trying to defend himself, more…scary. He grins. _Nice._

“I don’t like that smile,” Mick says. “What’re you thinking?”

“I wanna go out and fight somebody,” Len says, looking down at his hands – Mick’s hands – with a grin. He could beat so many people up with these hands, able to take them out with one big ham-fisted punch instead of having to focus on speed and skill just to get close enough. He could imagine it perfectly. His grin widens.

“We’re not going to go out and fight anybody till we figure this shit out,” Mick snaps, then looks at himself in horror. “Did I just refuse to go out and fight?”

“I see why you’re always so eager for a brawl,” Len says, bouncing up and down a little on his toes, testing his agility. Mick was fast and flexible for his size, he knew that; he’d be able to use that. He can feel the adrenaline running through his system already, just in anticipation. That’d never happened to him before; usually a fight has to be imminent for his system to start revving up. “I feel _great_.”

“And I feel nothing,” Mick says, looking miffed. “Well, whatever. Let’s go get a drink; there should be some bars open by now.”

By the time they make it to a nearby bar, black-market by the look of it, they’ve mostly figured out the kinks of the center of gravity stuff. Mostly. Every once in a while one of them will forget and lurch off, making a turn too hard or too slow.

Len’s raring to go by the time they get there, though; he grins his best shark’s smile – he catches a glimpse of it in the mirror over the bar and it’s even scarier on Mick’s face than his own – and starts scanning the bar for likely targets.

“Len, you sure we oughtn’t go home to figure this shit out?” Mick asks, frowning down at his hands and flexing them a little bit. His fingers kept twitching the way Len’s did when he was nervous about something. 

“What’s left to figure out? It’s the marriage thing,” Len says dismissively. “At least now we know why people do it, and it’s pretty cool. Now if you don’t mind, I’m gonna introduce myself to some of our friends at the bar.”

He hears Mick mutter something about damaged critical thinking skills, but Len’s critical thinking skills are _fine_ – and Mick’s are too, usually, even if he can’t be bothered to use them half the time. Len’s big, he’s scary, he’s not in pain – everything he always wanted to be as a kid. 

Besides, who knew if this switcheroo business will last past the honeymoon stage? No, if Len wants to take advantage of it, the time is now. 

Len spots someone who looks like they’re in a bad mood with a hair-trigger temper and swaggers right up into their personal space.

About twenty minutes later, he staggers out of the bar, beaming fit to split his face open, with a grinning Mick at his side. “Okay, that was pretty fun,” Mick allows. “That biker that went after me didn’t get a single hit in! I dodged every single one of ‘em!”

“And the ones that hit me barely made a dent,” Len says with satisfaction, rubbing his chest. He took a handful of solid hits to the midsection and he’s barely even bruised.

“You see, I told you that you didn’t need to worry about me getting a couple of gut punches,” Mick says, shaking his head. “They don’t hurt that bad.”

“They hurt bad enough in my body,” Len says. “So you be careful in there.”

“That’s just ‘cause you got ribs like a fragile baby bird,” Mick snorts, reaching down to his pockets in an instinctive motion – probably looking for his lighter – then frowns, pulling out a wallet. Three wallets, actually. “Jesus, Len,” he marvels. “You really _can’t_ help yourself, can you? I barely even noticed I was lifting ‘em.”

“So I’m a bit of klepto,” Len says with a shrug. “It’s all muscle memory and instinct after a while.” 

“Huh. You think you got the pyro shit from me?”

“I’m not even gonna try,” Len says firmly. “Mental illness is half brain chemistry, half personal shit, ain’t it, and right now I’m in your body. I don’t wanna know what your pyro thing would be like with me in the driver’s seat.” He instinctively steps forward to pick the lock back to their apartment, then scowls at his hands, which are great for punching people’s faces in but harder to get a handle on for more delicate work – even though he _knows_ Mick can pick locks nearly as well as he can.

This whole body switching business requires more finesse than he’d thought about when he was watching all those television shows. The people on the sci fi shows never seemed to have these problems. 

It’s some consolation that Mick is equally unsuccessful at first, but he figures out the differences pretty quickly and has the door open in a reasonable amount of time. “I’m not cracking any safes like this,” Mick says, looking pleased with himself, “but that wasn’t half bad.”

“I’m glad we’re just lying low,” Len says, shaking his head. “I don’t even want to think about what’d happen if we had a heist planned.”

Mick hums thoughtfully. “You know,” he says, “we’re not _just_ lying low.”

Len frowns. Had he forgotten something? Some heist, some job, something they needed to do today? “How’s that?”

Mick smirks. “It’s our honeymoon.”

Oh, _that_.

Len smirks back. 

Mick steps forward, looking intent, and pulls an unresisting Len in for a fierce kiss. There’s a bizarre moment at first, reaching for Mick’s broad shoulders and finding his own instead, but it’s still Mick in there, and Mick’s familiar smirk on an unfamiliar body, and Len doesn’t know if this makes him a narcissist or not, but he’s totally on board with this. 

Mick snakes a hand through the suspenders that Len had begrudgingly put on earlier (because Mick didn’t seem to own a belt and Len’s wouldn’t fit him) and yanks him towards the bedroom, pushing him down on the bed and straddling Len. He fits into Len’s lap in a way he doesn’t in his own body – they’re only an inch or so apart in height, but somehow Mick makes Len feel small. It’s surprisingly cute.

Len runs a hand up Mick’s leg, marveling at the differences. 

“Get out of your head,” Mick says grumpily, and pulls off his shirt. He runs a hand over his own chest, smirking at Len, only for his hungry expression to fade into something closer to curiosity. “Huh,” he says, playing a little with his nipples. “They really don’t do anything for you, do they?”

“No,” Len says honestly. Mick’s always liked playing with them, and Len never minded it, tried to return the favor when he could since Mick seemed to like it, but it wasn’t like it was anything special. 

Mick gets an evil smirk on his face. “Oh, Lenny,” he says, shaking his head theatrically. “You’ve got no idea.”

“What?” Len says warily, only for Mick to reach over and push the suspenders off his shoulders, hands smoothing their way over his shoulders and arms as he did. Then Mick rucked up Len’s shirt, pushing it all the up to his armpits, running up his stomach and his chest with his thumbs, and then – 

“Holy _crap_ ,” Len blurts out as something electric zings straight down to his cock. “The fuck was that?”

Mick just chuckles and leans forward, mouthing at his left nipple while thumbing the other one, and fucking hell, Len is going to have to do this to Mick when he gets back to his own body, he had _no idea_. Len’s hands go shaky trying to keep himself up and eventually he gives up, letting Mick push him back on the bed and god, Mick is so _sensitive_ , not just there but everywhere, every little lick or brush of the fingers; Len doesn’t know if it’s Mick’s body or if it’s just his unfamiliarity with the sensation input, but he can't stop squirming under Mick’s sure hands, unsure whether to arch up his chest or try to get some friction against his cock, still trapped in his pants. 

“Pants,” he manages to gasp out. “Get ‘em _off_.”

Mick runs his fingernails down Len’s stomach until he’s palming Len’s cock – _Mick’s_ cock, fuck, why is that hot? – in his hand. He pulls off of Len’s chest just long enough to say, “Something you need me to take care of here?” Len didn’t even know his voice could go deep like that.

“ _Yes_ , you _fucker_ ,” Len says, bucking up into Mick’s hand. 

Mick laughs outright at that, finally taking pity on him and sliding his hand in there. It should feel the same as it does in his body – absolutely excellent, but not like, fourteen-year-old about to pop off like a rocket – but it _doesn’t_ , it feels different. Good different. Fuck, the fourteen-year-old reference might not be too far off; this is like learning the difference between using your own hand on yourself and getting a hand from someone else all over again. 

And Mick knows this body, every goddamn inch of it, inside and out; Len likes to think after this many years together he’s an expert in what makes Mick tick, but just like in a heist, there’s nothing like insider information. Mick’s always liked it a little rougher than Len does, firmer grip, and now Len gets why Mick’s always whining when he teases him because those light strokes just aren’t going to be enough to get him there. They are, however, going to drive him _insane_.

He pants Mick’s name, interspersed with curses and possibly prayers, he’s got no idea at this point, but Mick’s looking hungry, too, and he pulls away just long enough to strip off his pants and climb back on, naked as a jaybird and just as unashamed. 

Len never wore his body as well as Mick does. It squeezes something in his chest just to look at him, confident and self-assured and free like that; he’s never known he could be anything but what he is, but looking at Mick perched there, he sees to a certain extent what he could be, and he likes it more than he realized. 

Len reaches up and pulls Mick down, first for a kiss, a meeting of lips and tongue, and then, in a fit of revenge, makes his way to that spot on his neck that always drives him wild when Mick goes at it. Mick bucks on top of him when he finds it, curling up around him and grinding down against him. 

“Fuck, Lenny,” Mick hisses. “Right there, yeah – no, stop.”

Len pulls away immediately and props himself up on his elbows, arching his eyebrows. Both of them, he finds, since Mick doesn’t seem to be able to arch just one very effectively. Stop rarely means an end to the evening’s fun, but unless they’ve talked something out ahead of time, no means no and that’s enough for Len. “What’s up?”

“I’m gonna pop if we keep this up too long, and I’ve got plans.”

Len likes Mick’s plans, at least at home. Mick’s shit at planning heists – he’s never understood in his gut why you can’t just walk in, grab the thing, and walk back out, even though intellectually he knows that it’s a sure-fire way to get nabbed by the cops – but Len’s equally shit at planning anything that involves relaxing, while Mick’s got that covered. Luckily, they know to play to their strengths.

“Yes, boss,” Len drawls, relaxing. 

Not shifting position – which is good, Len likes Mick right where he is right now – Mick leans over and fumbles with the bedside table for some lube. Len takes advantage of Mick’s distraction to sit up a little more and run his hands up and down Mick’s thighs and ass, kneading a little bit and smirking when he feels Mick’s cock jump a little where it’s pressed against his body. He admires the contrast between Mick’s bare legs ( _his_ bare legs?) and the heavy cargo pants that Mick usually wears, which Len hadn’t bothered to pull off yet. Mick had pulled them open enough to get his cock out and down enough to give him some mobility, that was good enough. 

Len took a moment to imagine how he must look right now, in Mick’s body, pants shoved down to his thighs and shirt rucked up to expose his chest, marks that he can already see rising up all over his chest where Mick’s been at him with his lips and his teeth, debauched and ready for more. He licks his lips at the thought of it. 

What can he say? Mick’s pretty hot. 

Mick finally gets the lube out, but instead of pushing Len back on the bed – Mick loves fingering Len; he can and has spent hours on it until Len was fucked out and begging for mercy – he offers Len the lube instead.

Len looks at the tube with a surprised blink; it’s not that he hasn’t topped before, of course, plenty of times, and enjoyed it, too, but Mick’s usually a lot more picky about when he’s willing to get fucked than Len is. He’s got to be in the right mood, the right vibe, relaxed and with his guard down, or else he’ll just hate it and that makes the entire thing no good to either of them. Normally Len knows when it’s one of those days, and he had no idea here. 

Seeing Len’s expression, Mick grins at him. “You always seem to have more fun getting it than I do,” he says, looking smug. “I figure it’s probably half personal shit, half body shit, just like the pyro stuff and just like your neck or my chest, yeah? So while I’m here, I figure I’m going to take your body,” and here he grinds himself down pointedly, “for a ride.”

Len laughs. Mick knew how much Len liked terrible puns and innuendo; he didn’t make jokes as often as Len did, but he was damn funny when he did. “And how do you want me?” he asks with a smirk holding out a hand for the lube.

Mick smirks in return and suddenly Len finds himself with his face in the sheets and his ass in the air, which is _not_ where he was expecting this evening to go based on Mick's lead up. Something wraps around his wrists and arms – Len’s belt, if he had to guess, Mick’s arms are much less sensitive to finer details of texture and pressure, probably due to the burns, though damn does his chest and stomach make up for it – and then Mick rolls him back over to a sitting position. “All mine,” Mick growls, and fuck if Len doesn’t love it when he does that.

He tests the makeshift rope – lose enough for him to get out of in a jiffy if he needs to, even accounting for using Mick’s hands instead of his own, but tight enough that he won’t be able to shake loose by accident – and smirks up at Mick. “I’m not allowed to participate today?” he drawls, perfectly happy with that. 

“No,” Mick replies. “You’re sneaky and have a tendency to ruin my plans.” His smirk broadens. “Also, you have a tendency to flail and I pack a meaner punch than you do.”

“I do not _flail_ – ” Mick slides right down Len’s body and wraps his lips around his cock. Len’s hips jerk at the abrupt rush of sensation and his hands instinctively try to fly out, only for the belt to hold and for him to nearly fall over sideways. 

Mick pulls himself off long enough to laugh. 

“Well, when you do _that_ , I don’t got much choice, do I?” Len mock-grumbles. He arches his hips a little. “Now get back _to it_.”

Mick grabs him by the hips and leans back down. He can’t manage it quite as well as he can in his body – holding Mick’s body back is like trying to stop a runaway truck with your bare hands – but it works well enough. Especially since Len’s managed to train away his gag reflex well enough to deep throat while Mick never has, and that part’s all physical. Mick’s gleeful like he’s got a brand new toy to play with, and Len – Len is _not_ complaining. 

He is exceedingly impressed with his own ability to give head. This whole marriage business is going to give him a swelled head. Beyond the one Mick was currently servicing, that is.

Len snickers. 

Mick pulls off of him and climbs back up on the bed to start fingering himself open. “I don’t even want to know what’s going through your head,” he comments, clearing his throat a little but his voice still a little raspy.

Len smirks and tells him anyway.

Mick pauses and stares at him. “ _Seriously?_ Fuck, I married a dweeb.”

“No take-backs,” Len sings out.

Mick rolls his eyes and clambers on top of Len. 

“You sure you’ve prepped enough?” Len asks, frowning a little. “You’re bigger than I am, remember – ”

Mick smirks. 

“– I can’t believe you sometimes. But seriously, you need to – _fucking Christ almighty_!”

Mick hums cheerfully as he sinks himself down on Len’s cock, spearing himself open like it’s easy. “Now, now, Lenny, you’re being a bad Jew again – oh, yes, this is nice –”

Mick has the same sort of cheerful “experiment or death” expression on his face that he gets when he’s building something that might blow up, and it’s all aimed at _Len_. Len whimpers at little bit, he’s not too proud to admit it.

Len stops trying to make any sense at that point, arching his hips up when Mick lets him but generally just sitting back and letting Mick do all the work. Mick reaches down and starts stroking himself, scowling and adjusting his grip after the first few attempts – what, Len likes a bit more of a longer stroke and a lighter touch, is that a crime? – and then, just as Len’s starting to really go crazy, he leans forward and runs his tongue right along Len’s chest.

Len maybe whites out for a moment there, coming with a shout before falling backwards onto the bed. Mick pulls himself off and finishes himself off, splattering Len’s chest with his come before dropping down to Len’s side with a dazed expression. Len always did go a bit dreamy after coming.

But today, that’s Mick’s problem. Len personally feels positively peppy. 

Len grins evilly and wiggles his way out of the belt, turning to Mick and pulling him up the bed. “So, it’s my turn now, right?”

Mick’s eyes go wide. “I literally _just came_ ,” he protests. “And neither you nor I are that young anymore!”

“Don’t worry,” Len purrs, sliding down the bed. “I’m willing to work at it.”

Now it’s Mick’s turn to whimper. 

The effect reverses about a day later, which they’re both pleased with. “Nice for a visit, but no intention of moving in, you know?” Len remarks to Mick, who nods. 

“They really ought to have more of that shit in porn, though,” Mick comments. “It was hot.”

“How would you show it happening?” Len asks skeptically. “Plus all that business with the center of gravity – seems like a lot of effort to put in when most people watching just want them to get to it.”

“True, I guess.” Mick shrugs. “I dunno. Nice perk, though. I’d marry you just for that.”

“I’m touched,” Len drawls. “Now I don’t mind spending another few days in bed reacclimatizing, if you get my drift – ”

“Oh, I get your drift all right. You wanna get mine?”

Len whacks Mick upside the head without even looking at him. “But after that, I got a great idea for a heist – there’s a joint not far from here where they ship uncut rubies and sapphires and shit for cutting, and they’ve just applied for renovations, which means their business plan’s on file with the DOB. It’s got some pretty top-notch security, from what I’ve heard so far, but I think we can take it if I get those blueprints and then plan it out right. I figure one month to get the blueprints, maybe two to plan out the heist itself.”

“We’ve dealt with top-notch security before,” Mick says, unconcerned. “What’s different about this one?”

Len grins. “You’ll like this,” he says. “They’ve got lasers.”

“What, like – do you mean the dinky little invisible laser pointer crap, or are we talking, like, Mission Impossible style lasers?”

“Mick, would I bother telling you about laser pointers?”

“Okay,” Mick concedes. “Now I’m interested. How do they work?”

Len pats him on the stomach, then lets his hand linger there just because he can. “That, buddy, is all on you. I’m going to be busy being lightfooted and lightfingered on that safe of theirs.”

Three months later, the night before the heist, they wake up and look at each other.

“God _fucking_ damnit!”

They pull the heist off a month later, but Len’s a bit bitter about it.

(He still hangs up their marriage contract on their favorite safe house’s walls.)

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the people commenting on The Habits of Married Couples seemed to want a sequel and/or prequel and it was LOSF smut week, so here you go.


End file.
